


any given sundae

by athena3062



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, like sugar-sweet ice cream toppings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena3062/pseuds/athena3062
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CS AU. He comes in to her ice cream shop every week but only stays if the shop is empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any given sundae

“Hey kid you’ve got a letter.”

“Really?” Henry practically bounded across the apartment. “From who?”

“Ingrid,” Emma replied, sorting three envelopes into the junk pile.

Henry plucked the thick envelope from the counter, studying the colorful foreign stamps. He ripped open the seal, revealing a stack of postcards.

Emma stuffed the junk mail into the trash can, allowing the metal lid to slam closed. “Where’s she at now?”

Henry spread the cards over the island. “Phnom Penh.” He squinted at the messy scrawl on the back of one card. “No. That was old. Bangkok.”

Emma dumped her empty mug into the sink. Ingrid had turned her hobby, a part-time travel blog, into a full-time business, financing her excursions with some combination of reviews and part-time work in exotic locations.

Henry moved around the island, postcards in hand. He studied the refrigerator door critically. “She said she met monks,” Henry told Emma, shifting the magnets around to secure the new cards into place.

“Sounds fun.” Emma didn’t try to understand the system; sometimes Henry grouped Ingrid’s postcards chronologically but other times it was a random system that only her son understood.

The clock next to the door chimed the hour. Henry spun to face Emma, eyes wide. “Mom we’re going to be late!”

“No we aren’t,” she replied. Founder’s Day celebrations rarely started on time. She’d agreed to a small booth – only four flavors of ice cream – and Ashley had volunteered to oversee the flavor suggestion ‘contest’ which usually involved a discussion with Leroy about why beer wasn’t a good choice. This year Emma only needed to pick the top five flavors for consideration. Whoever submitted the winning combination received ten free scoops and got to name the flavor.

“Let’s go.” Henry was already standing by the door, wrapping his striped scarf around his neck. Emma retrieved her tan coat. Only a few more weeks before Graham began his daily lectures about snow tires and proper emergency equipment.

She followed Henry down the stairs and across the foyer. The sidewalk was empty but she could hear the noise from the square.

“Come on Mom.” Henry dashed ahead of Emma on the sidewalk, the ends of his scarf flapping behind him like a narrow cape. The tree trunks were wrapped in twinkle lights, making Storybrooke feel like something from another time.

Emma caught up to Henry on the corner, glad he still enjoyed town events. She knew how small the town could feel; Emma had been thirteen when she arrived. She’d been placed on a bus headed north after she’d run away from her fourth foster home in three months. Ingrid had met her at the bus stop, telling Emma that she was more than welcome to run away but could she wait until the morning? The town sheriff was sick and his deputy hated driving at night.

Emma had left town after high school, picking a college in Vermont and moving to Boston after graduation. Coming back to Storybrooke hadn’t been part of her plan. But eleven years and a positive pregnancy test later, Emma found herself agreeing to look after Ingrid’s store.

The plan (laughably simple in hindsight) had been to lick her wounds for a summer. Emma hated having to depend on Neal’s checks to pay her insurance bills; she wanted an apartment that didn’t cost four figures to rent and a school system that wasn’t in shambles. Ingrid’s announcement had felt like a sign but Emma never thought that a few months would turn into three years.

They stepped into the square. The Founder’s Day carnival was already underway. “Hi Mrs. Nolan,” Henry called across the aisle.

“Hi Henry!” Mary Margaret was in her usual booth, passing golden-colored pillar candles to raise money for the bridge renewal. As far as anyone knew the bridge fundraiser had been going on for at least five years. But at the rate Mary Margaret was selling candles, soon the town would be able to move on to the gazebo restoration project. Emma waved as they walked past, determined to not take home more than one candle this year.

Henry had already spotted his friends. He turned back to Emma. “Mom can I go?”

Over his shoulder Emma saw some of the familiar faces from Henry’s class.

“Sure,” she replied. “Stay in the square though. I’ll meet you on the steps, okay?”

“Okay,” Henry answered.

Emma watched him dart over to his friends. She wasn’t worried about Henry. Granny always set up her booth at the other end of the square and between her and Mary Margaret no one could escape unnoticed.

Emma moved slowly through the stalls. She waved at Jefferson who was standing beside his daughter; Grace was agonizing over a selection of soaps. Astrid was selling fudge but Emma got her weekly order delivered right to the shop. Marco had his usual assortment of wooden figures and cuckoo clocks, but fortunately he was talking to Archie so Emma didn’t have to stop.

She made her way to a booth draped with yards of jewel-toned fabrics. “What are you supposed to be?” Emma asked Ruby, taking in her friend’s bright lipstick and heavy eye makeup.

Ruby was one of Emma’s oldest friends. Not only was her grandmother’s diner three doors down from Ingrid’s shop but the two girls had been in the same grade throughout school. They’d drifted apart after graduation but when Emma moved back to town, it was like no time had passed.

“A fortune teller,” Ruby replied, producing a battered deck of cards from her coat pocket. “Pick a card, I’ll tell you the future.”

Emma smirked. “I’ll pass.” She didn’t want to guess what Ruby would say, probably something about meeting a mysterious stranger who was going to steal her heart. Everyone knew Mary Margaret was a romantic but Ruby had a soft side (hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and snark).

“Suit yourself.”

She checked in with Ashley. The suggestion bowl was nearly full. Emma glanced at a few entries but so far everything seemed standard. Peanut butter and jelly might not sell well but she could give it a try. Ashley’s favorite had come from her three year old daughter: pink snow. She didn’t know what Alexandra thought pink snow tasted like but the little girl was certain Emma would make it. Emma promised to think of something – cotton candy or strawberry came to mind. Nothing could be worse than butterbeer – it had taken eighteen batches before she was satisfied– but the look on Henry’s face had been worth the hours she’d spent perfecting the recipe.

Emma admired some of the jewelry stalls but didn’t buy anything. She sidestepped a double-wide stroller, nearly cracking her shin on a tent pole when she heard someone call her name.

Graham stood behind the ring toss station. “Come try your luck,” he invited. This year he’d painted the bottles in black and white geometric patterns.

“What’s your theme?” Emma asked, leaning her elbows on the wooden counter.

“Escher,” Graham replied. “I wanted to do playing cards but Ruby said his-and-her booths was out of the question. After I bought the paint.“ He shook his head. “I’m saving the red for Halloween.”

“You need a hobby Sheriff,” Emma teased.

“Says the woman who didn’t even staff her own booth.”

Emma chuckled. “I’m not the one who suggested banana cream pie as a flavor.”

“Two years ago!” Graham clutched his chest. “I’m still bitter.”

“Liar,” Emma chided.

She turned away from the booth and surveyed the aisles. Henry stood shoulder-to-shoulder with two other boys in front of the animal shelter’s dunking station. Emma waved at David Nolan, who sat in the tank. No one else would volunteer for a dunk tank in late September, but David claimed it was his favorite tradition. So far he looked dry.

She made her way slowly through the rest of the square, stopping at Granny’s booth to pick up a bag of cider donuts. She had settled herself on the bottom step leading to town hall, one hand inside the white bag, when a large chocolate lab butted his head against her calf. “Hi buddy,” she said softly, looking at his gray muzzle and dark eyes.

Emma brushed her hand off on the side of her jeans and offered her fingers. He sniffed at them tentatively, pink tongue coming out to lick sugar from her knuckles. “Where’s your owner?”

The dog was wearing a bright orange collar but she didn’t see anyone searching for a dog. Emma brushed her hand over the dog’s head, careful not to pat too hard. When she tried to remove her hand, the dog nudged her leg with his nose. “Okay, you win,” Emma replied.

“Davy?” A man in a green jacket emerged from the row of booths and approached Emma. “You troublesome mutt!”

Emma looked up. The dog trotted obediently over the man, tail wagging. “Friend of yours?” she asked, standing up slowly.

The man leaned down, clipping an orange leash onto the collar. “Apologies for the intrusion.“

He was familiar in the way that everyone became in a small town, part of the normal landscape. She’d seen him before, crossing the street or in line at the grocery store, but had never spoken to him.

“It’s alright,” she replied. “I’m Emma, by the way. Emma Swan.” She held out her hand.

He shifted the leash to his left hand. “Killian Jones. And you’ve already met Davy.”

Emma looked at him sideways. “You named your dog Davy Jones?”

He shook his head, having the decency to look embarrassed at the ridiculous name. “No. My brother named his dog Davy Jones.”

Davy pulled at his leash and Killian ducked his head. “I should go.”

“Alright.” Emma watched him walk back through the aisles, his legs adjusting to the dog’s slow pace.

///

Three days later Emma was on her way to Granny’s to pick up lunch when she saw a familiar orange leash looped through the fence posts. Davy was lying on the ground, a full bowl of water near his front paws.

“Hi buddy,” she said, leaning down to pet the dog’s head.

Davy stood up quickly, his tail wagging back and forth. Emma bent down so her face was level with his nose. Normally she wasn’t a dog person but Davy was different.

"We meet again.”

Emma looked up at Killian Jones. “Twice in one week,” Emma observed.

“Should I be concerned?”

"You caught me.” Emma rocked back onto her heels, standing up slowly. “I’m trying to kidnap your dog.”

“At least you’re honest about your intentions,” he replied, scratching Davy’s head with one hand. The dog panted softly, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“My son wants a dog.” Emma stepped aside to let two older women pass them on the sidewalk.

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“If Davy runs off, you’ll be the first person I call,” Killian said. He untangled Davy’s leash from the fence post. “Unless your son wants to take a practice run at pet ownersnhip.”

Emma shifted from one foot to another. “I’ll take a raincheck. There’s no one watching the store and I don’t want to forfeit my lunch.”

“Store?”

She pointed behind her back at the blue awning. The striped yellow and white flag fluttered in the breeze.. “Any Given Sundae. Stop by sometime.” Emma didn’t wait for him to answer before she moved past him.

The diner was nearly empty, midway between the lunch and after-school crowd. Granny was more than willing to lay out everything she knew about Killian Jones: he’d been renting the old Osbourne farmhouse since July and had lost his brother the year before.

///

Six days later the bell above the door jingled. Emma looked up from her laptop, grateful for any excuse to abandon her color-coded spreadsheet. Killian stood on the opposite side of the counter, surveying the labels.

"Let me know if you want to try any,” she offered, closing the laptop screen. It was her standard opening line, the same one Ingrid always used.

He paced back and forth in front of the display, pausing to consider one flavor before moving onto another. Emma let him make three passes before she got off the stool. Her lower back was stiff from being hunched over the computer.

“What’s the Berry Delight?” He pointed at the label but didn’t press his finger against the glass (Emma hated wiping away fingerprint smudges).

“Raspberry ice cream with pieces of chocolate covered strawberries. It was one of last year’s honorable mentions.“ Emma gestured at the chalkboard overhead. She’d dedicated half to listing the five new flavors vying for a spot in her normal rotation. “I take suggestions at Founder’s Day and pick five for everyone to vote on. I’ll announce the winner on Halloween.”

Emma had twenty-three standard flavors but sometimes she couldn’t bring herself to mix another batch of chocolate-caramel swirl. "Want to try it?”

His eyes flickered over the sign. “Perhaps another time.”

“What do you like?” Emma leaned forward, both hands on the silver counter. She was pretty good at suggesting flavor combinations. “Coffee? Blueberries?”

“You have more than one type of blueberry ice cream?” His eyebrows furrowed.

Emma grinned. “No. But I have white-chocolate covered blueberries as a topping. My kid loves it.”

“Ah.” Killian nodded. “What about Pirate’s Treasure?” His index finger gestured at the label. She’d sketched a skull and crossbones next to the lettering.

Emma dipped a metal spoon into the container and passed it to Killian. “Butterscotch base,” she explained. “With a rum-infused caramel swirl.”

He considered the flavor, holding the spoon between his thumb and index finger. "It’s good.” His expression turned sheepish. “I did have a taste for chocolate.”

“Try this.” Emma dipped a tasting spoon into Storybrooke Express (chocolate ice cream with chocolate-covered espresso beans).

His lips closed around the spoon and Emma waited, trying to gauge his reaction. “Very good,” he replied. The two spoons clattered into the large bucket. “But what’s your favorite?”

Emma went immediately to Frozen Hot Chocolate and passed the spoon to Killian, not bothering to mention the secret ingredient (cinnamon) but he noticed immediately.

“I’ll take one scoop of each,” he told Emma.

“Cup or cone?” She lifted the glass case, ice cream scoop in her left hand.

“Cup,” Killian replied, gesturing at the shallow serving dish she used for banana splits.

“That holds three scoops,” Emma said patiently. She didn’t get a lot of foot traffic during the school day. Talking to Killian Jones was preferable to untangling next week’s order.

“Surprise me then.” He rocked back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets. Despite the cool weather, he was only wearing a flannel shirt.

“Rough day?” Emma asked as she scooped the ice cream, adding Giraffe Spots (butter pecan with chocolate covered caramel bites) to his order.

“Quite the opposite,” he said, accepting the large dish with a smile. “I just sent a book to press.”

“Oh, you’re a writer?” Emma wiped off her hands and punched in the total on her ancient cash register (it was at least forty years old but Marco was still able to keep it running so she wouldn’t replace it). “It’s seven dollars.”

“Textbook editor.” He placed the ice cream on the counter and reached into his pocket. “Boring stuff. The latest was anatomy.”

Emma pulled a face. She never cared much for science. “Napkins are on the table.”

There were only five tables but in the warmer months she added long benches in front of her window. Inside, along the window was a long bench that faced the street and could accommodate at least fifteen people.

He passed her exact change. “Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your…”

“Ordering,” Emma replied. “I have two weddings this month and no one wants the same flavors. Surprise.” She flashed him a quick smile.

“Ah.” Killian didn’t move from his position, dipping his spoon into the ice cream. “And is this what you imagined when you decided to become an ice cream shop owner?” He looked at Emma expectantly as he ate.

She shook her head. “It was my foster mother’s dream. Until she decided to become a full-time blogger.”

Killian swallowed the mouthful of ice cream, looking dashed. “You’re joking.“

Emma rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t make it up. She’s kind of a free spirit.”

He dipped the spoon into Giraffe Spots, lifting it to his mouth with trying to guess the flavor. “French Vanilla?”

“Butter pecan,” she replied.

He took another taste. “And what about you? What was your dream?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. He didn’t mean anything by the question, Emma scolded herself, it was a polite inquiry, not a judgement or condemnation.

Before she could reply, Killian answered his own question. “I wanted to be an astronaut. ‘Til I was about fifteen and realized I’d need to take more complicated maths than algebra.”

Emma pushed a roll of paper towels across the counter. “I wanted to be an artist.” She hadn’t said the words aloud in nearly twelve years. “Big pieces, like murals in train stations, you know?”

He nodded, spoon scraping the edges of the bowl. “I see. Do you still paint?”

“Not in years.” Neal had hated the smell of her oil paints and resented the time she spent in studio. After she got pregnant, Emma had switched to watercolors but it had been nearly impossible to make time for her art. She’d traded paintbrushes for a receptionist job (plus a second, sometimes third, job after things with Neal fell apart). The only designs she made anymore were for the store: labels, displays and window decorations for the changing seasons.

Killian tore a sheet from the roll. “I used to work in finance,” he replied, wiping his mouth with the paper towel. “Came to New York for a job. Thought I was on top of the world.”

His smile was sad as he pushed the empty dish back across the counter. “The ice cream was excellent. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She left the dish where he’d left it until the door closed. Emma leaned beneath the counter, feeling for her ipod. Her usual playlist was driving her to distraction.

///

He became part of her normal Wednesday routine. Every week she’d pick two new flavors for him to try. Sometimes he brought Davy, tail wagging and paws sliding over the tile floors. Emma wondered what he did every other day of the week, whether he ventured into town in his ancient tan and cream truck or if he stayed home. She had a vague idea of where he lived. When she was in high school kids used to park their cars at the edge of the forest after school dances; Emma had never gone.

Some days he stood, other times he dragged a stool to the counter and sat with his shoulder against the wall, talking to her. He never stayed if there were other customers, but when the shop was empty he could pass an hour in front of the counter.

She starting testing new flavors on him: licorice swirl was met with a grimace but peppermint bark (studded with chocolate covered pretzels) was a hit. They debated movie adaptations and traded television recommendations.

Henry’s school closed early the day before Thanksgiving and Emma had more take-out orders than she’d planned, lots of caramel and chocolate plus three varieties of pumpkin. She was in the back, scooping salted caramel into individual cartons when the door chime announced a customer. She’d left Henry in the front; he could handle any walk-in traffic. Most of her customers were picking up pre-paid orders.

The freezer next to the display case was filled with completed orders, each tagged with a note for the recipient. If Leroy would collect his nine cartons of Rum Raisin, Emma wouldn’t have to store any orders in the back. She’d already called twice. “I know sister, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he’d assured Emma three hours ago.

“Mom? There’s someone here for you.”

Emma exhaled loudly, balancing the drum of Peach Pie in the crook of her left arm. She backed through the swinging doors, not bothering to put down the container. When she turned on her heel, Killian was standing behind the case with a paper bag in his hand.

“Hi.” She stopped abruptly, conscious of her messy ponytail and the heavy drum of ice cream.

He held up the paper bag. “Granny sent me with your lunch and instructions to make you eat.” He set it onto the counter with a grin. “She sent something for your lad as well.” Killian glanced at Henry.

Emma’s arm prickled where the cold metal touched bare skin. “Thanks. Um, Henry this is Killian. Killian, my son Henry.”

Henry had returned to his seat behind the counter, his book in one hand. “Hello,” he said, glancing up without interest.

Emma stared at the bag of food. She was hungry but the orders weren’t going to fill themselves. The sooner she finished packaging everything, the sooner she could call Will to start making deliveries, and the sooner she could go home.

“I’m kind of slammed right now,” Emma admitted. “Henry why don’t you start?”

“Okay,” he replied without looking up. At the rate he was going, Emma was certain he’d finish the series before break ended. Fortunately Belle had let him check the last three books out together.

Killian came around the counter and followed Emma into the back room. “Can I help?”

When the swinging doors closed, the room suddenly felt small. “Do you know how to make ice cream?” Her arms ached and there were still half a dozen drums that needed to be emptied.

“No,” he replied. “But I can wield a spoon. If you tell me what goes where, perhaps then you could eat something.”

Emma hesitated but she could already smell French fries. Her stomach growled.

“Okay.” She placed the drum onto the metal table. “Each one of these fills about four cartons. Slap a label on the full ones, put them in the freezer. Take whatever’s left and stick it on the left side. I’ll switch out the display cases later.”

Killian glanced at the elaborate set up. “Scoop, label, freeze. Sounds fairly simple. Where do I scrub in?”

Emma bit back a smile. “Sink’s over there. Gloves are next to the soap. Rinse the scooper in between flavors. I’ll never hear the end of it if Archie finds a raisin in his mint chocolate chip.”

“It’s quite the assembly line you have here Swan,” Killian said, draping his coat over the hook.

Usually she had help but Ashley’s daughter had been sick all week and Emma didn’t want to expose anyone to those germs.

“Look you don’t have to do this,” she began but he cut her off with a grin.

“Go eat,” he replied. “I’ll call if I encounter a problem.”

“You better.” Emma pushed open the white swinging doors. She could wash her hands at the front sink. Henry was already bent over his burger, the book still in his left hand.

“How’s their quest?” Emma asked when she slid onto the chair across the table.

“It hasn’t started yet,” Henry replied, placing the book facedown onto the table. “That’s the next book.”

“Got it.” Emma pulled open the container: grilled cheese sandwich and fries. Emma lifted the top slice to reveal thin slices of green apple; she begged Granny to make it a permanent menu item but so far hadn’t been successful.

“Who’s Killian?” Henry asked around a mouthful of burger.

“He’s…” Unable to find the right word, Emma reached for the iced tea and took a generous swallow. “He’s a friend,” she replied finally.

He was a regular customer but she’d grown comfortable talking to him, so they were more than just casual acquaintances. Maybe friends was a bit premature but Emma couldn’t think clearly; her mind buzzed with a list of things that needed to be finished before she closed.

“Do you want to call Ingrid tonight?” Emma lifted the lid off the plastic container of honey mustard and dipped two fries into the liquid. Ingrid was subletting an apartment in Seattle until mid-February.

“Sure,” Henry answered.

She didn’t ask about Neal; he’d called Henry earlier in the week with excuses about why he couldn’t make the trip to Storybrooke. Maybe next year, he’d said.

She and Henry had a plan: pancakes for breakfast and watching movies all afternoon, followed by dinner at Granny’s. This year they were planning a Jurassic Park marathon; she’d checked out the dvds from the library yesterday.

Emma bit into the second half of her sandwich as Henry pushed his chair back from the table, carrying his empty containers to the trash bin.

“Er Swan?” Killian’s voice came from the back room and Emma tried not to sigh.

“Yeah?” She leaned back in her chair, staring into the back room.

He came closer to the swinging door, balancing a small metal tub in one hand. “What flavor is this green concoction?”

Emma chuckled, crumbling her napkin. “It’s a special order. Washi and vanilla.”

“Eww,” Henry chimed in. “Who ordered that?”

“David Nolan. Mary Margaret had a craving.”

Killian’s horrified expression rivaled Henry’s, sending Emma into a fit of giggles. She’d been working long hours all week, trying to get everything done in time.

Emma took a sip of her tea and concentrated on the rest of her sandwich. It was only three-fifteen. She could be done by five if she worked quickly.

She threw away her trash - eating had improved her mood - and left Henry to his book.

In the back, Killian was bent over the sink. “Easy tiger,” Emma replied, watching him scrub the metal scoop vigorously. “I think it’s clean.”

His cheeks were tinged pink. “I wanted to be thorough.”

“I appreciate it.” Emma moved around him to stand in front of the sink. They’d never shared such a small space but they found a rhythm easily.

Less than an hour later all of the cartons were full, labelled and waiting to be picked up. Emma surveyed their handiwork with a pleased smile. She never would have finished so quickly without his help.

Leroy had picked up his order, leaving space in the front freezer case for her other orders, making it easier for Will to make his deliveries.

“If you aren’t busy, Henry and I usually go to Granny’s for Thanksgiving,” Emma blurted out. “She makes enough food to feed half the town.”

Killian turned around from the sink, still holding a dripping spoon in his left hand. “I couldn’t impose,” he replied. “Especially when it’s not really my holiday.”

“You don’t have to eat turkey,” Henry interrupted from his place in front of the freezer. “I never do.”

Emma nodded. “That’s right. She makes turkey and ham. And fifteen different side dishes. You should come.”

///

When she walked into Granny’s the next day, Henry on her heels, Emma’s gaze immediately landed on Killian. He stood at the counter talking to Leroy.

She made her way past the long table, balancing the three cartons of ice cream. Ruby met Emma at the kitchen door and took the bag with a mischievous smile. Emma didn’t want to think about how much teasing she was going to take from Ruby on the subject of Killian Jones.

Emma licked her lips. It was now or never. She turned, one hand on Killian’s upper arm, interrupting his conversation. Killian turned his head slightly, flashing her a smile.

“Sister this fellow is trying to tell me Rum Raisin isn’t your best flavor,” Leroy told Emma, his voice rising indignantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “And what did he say was the best?”

“The hot chocolate,” Leroy sputtered. “Who likes cinnamon in their chocolate?”

Emma and Killian shared a conspiratorial look. “Some people do,” she replied, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

Leroy shook his head and turned toward the bar, muttering under his breath.

Killian stepped forward to avoid colliding with Archie who was balancing an enormous wicker basket of rolls. He glanced over his shoulder. “This way,” he suggested, one hand going around Emma’s elbow, steering her away from the crowd and towards the back of the diner.

She followed his lead, blonde curls falling over her shoulders as they moved around stools and people clustered together.

They stopped next to the juke box. “You look lovely,” Killian said, his hand falling from her elbow.

“Thank you,” she replied. It had felt strange to get dressed for dinner at Granny’s, curling her hair and applying more than one coat of mascara, but the look on Killian’s face was worth the effort. “I didn’t think you were going to come.”

He shrugged, brushing a wayward curl away from her face. “I must confess I had imagined something more private for our first date.”

Emma swallowed over her dry throat, trying to match his tone. “I didn’t know this was a date.”

“Isn’t it?” Killian teased, brushing his knuckles gently along Emma’s arm.

She leaned forward, her toes touching his boots, smile wide. “Maybe.”

By the time Killian walked Emma and Henry back to their building, Emma had to admit that as far as first dates went, this one was pretty good. Even with the packed table, she hadn’t laughed so much in years. Granny had sent them home with two enormous bags of food. Emma passed Henry her keys. “Hey kid why don’t you put those in the fridge while I say good night to Killian?”

“Okay.” Henry took the keys without protest. “Night Killian!”

“Good night lad.” Killian had passed on leftovers, leaving his hands empty.

Henry’s feet slammed heavily against the stairs and Emma turned her attention back to Killian. A gust of wind cut through her thin leather jacket. She hadn’t bothered with a heavy coat – it was only a few blocks from her building to Granny’s diner – but the air had turned cold.

“Did you have fun?” The question had been burning in her mind all night. They had sat across the table from each other, Henry on Emma’s left and Ruby on her right, Killian between Archie and Graham. He’d tried most of the side dishes, even the ones Henry warned him against, gamely accepting the large servings Granny had dished out. Emma had stuck with her usual strategy, passing on the green bean casserole and the glazed sweet potatoes in favor of the corn bread. Henry had loaded his plate with corn, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and macaroni and cheese on one pass, ham and biscuits on the second.

“Aye.”

Emma stepped closer to Killian, interlacing their fingers. “So how about that second date?”

He tilted his head to the side. “I thought I was going to ask you out.”

Her smile bloomed slowly. “I got impatient.”

“Ah.” He brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

“Not at all,” Emma replied. She released his hands and stepped into the doorway, her hands braced on both sides of the door frame. “Good night Killian.”

“Good night Emma.”

The door closed with a quiet click and Emma couldn’t contain her wide smile. She felt like a teenager after a first date. It was a new but not unwelcome feeling.


End file.
